Hell Is Where The Heart Is
by Tempestt
Summary: The YED's revelation about Sam's destiny came to no surprise to John.He found out years ago,and he vowed on that day to save his child from evil, even if it meant destroying Sam before the demons could. Endangered!WeeSammy Protective!TeenDean, Pissed!Papa
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural

Thanks to Starliteyes for lending her wonderful beta skills.

Hell Is Where The Heart Is

Chapter One

_Seattle, Washington 1995_

"My daddy is _so_ going to kick your ass."

John Winchester hadn't been "daddy" since Sam had turned twelve six months ago and deemed himself too old to be talking like a baby. At the moment, however, he felt that the childish endearment was warranted. Even at a young age he knew quite a bit about waging psychological warfare. Hell, he had been setting up verbal landmines for his dad since he could talk, and mentally screwing most every adult he came in contact with since he was seven.

The only person he couldn't get one over on was Dean, and that was because his brother had a scarily accurate understanding of his little brother's mind. The twist was that while Dean used his mouth as a weapon, causing as much collateral damage as possible with minimal word play, Sam used his as a beguiling tactic. Most times he had moved onto a whole new school system before his previous counselors figured out he had manipulated them with puppy dog eyes and little boy smiles.

So, yeah, he knew that a mad dad was scary, but a pissed off daddy was downright terrifying. And that was exactly what Sam was going for as he stared down the man who fidgeted on the far side of the room. It was time the guy started thinking about the consequences of his actions. He and his buddy, wherever he had gotten off to, weren't going to get off lightly for stealing Sam Winchester right off the street.

The Winchesters had moved to Seattle two months prior and enrolled Sam into the grammar school four blocks away from the small house they were renting. At first John had insisted that Dean walk Sam to and from school every day, but since turning twelve the youngest Winchester had developed a sense of self. That self being too old to be babied by his brother and it was only four blocks for _cripesakes! _At exactly 3:10 pm when he was being yanked into a nondescript white, panel van, Samuel John Winchester learned his first lesson about hindsight being 20/20.

His dad had taught him a lot of things in his young life. He knew how to salt and burn vengeful spirits, he knew that silver killed shape-shifters and that holy water worked at warding off most things evil. By the time he was ten he knew how to hot wire a car and pick a lock with criminal proficiency, and when it came to dealing with people it was necessary for him lie like a hardened con talking to his mama, but there was one thing that John Winchester never taught his children---how to fight a man without killing him. _Huh, go figure._

Most predators out to snatch a kid would have been easily dealt with. They weren't prepared to handle a kid expertly trained in martial arts. They were just slime bags looking to take advantage of someone smaller and weaker than them. A well placed blow to the knee or groin would have put some sicko down for the count. However, the men who grabbed Sam weren't just two guys looking for trouble. They had the expertise of professionals, outweighed him by a hundred and fifty pounds at least, and they had a plan.

That plan being the classic mug and drug technique. Thirty seconds after they jumped him Sam was out cold from the chloroform soaked handkerchief they had forced over his mouth and nose. Thirty seconds and half a lifetime. Time had dragged to a near halt, and he saw every move in his head that he could execute to free himself from their clutches. After all, even against a bigger and stronger opponent he was still trained to win. The vulnerable spots that would bring an attacker down _permanently_ were more clearly etched in his brain than the face of his own brother. It was the realization that two dead bodies with crushed windpipes or a sliver of sinus bone shoved into their gray matter splayed out in the middle of the street would be a whole other level of _bad_ in an already piss fest of bad that stopped him cold. That and John Winchester's first and most Golden Rule shrieking siren-loud in his head.

_Thou shall not kill….humans._

Everything supernatural was fair game. If it had claws and fangs, then the Winchester motto was that it got dead quick, but if it was human it was off limits. A couple times during hunts it turned out that the prey wasn't supernatural at all, but a twisted human doing horrible things to other humans. John's solution had always been to back off and place a well-informed anonymous tip to the police.

So with that warning ringing in his head, Sam had gotten himself captured by the enemy. Why they were the enemy he wasn't sure, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was going to be in so much hot water that it was going to boil his gonads when he dad did come and get him. It never even occurred to him that maybe he wouldn't live long enough to be rescued. After all most normal people lived by the Golden Rule. _Didn't they?_

"And if my brother gets a hold of you…," Sam let the words trail off, full of sinister promise.

He curled his busted lip into a mockery of a smile, flashing even teeth stained pink with blood. He dipped his chin, allowing his too long blonde hair that was just starting to darken with adolescence to fall in front of his eyes, hooding them. His eyes were his best and worst trait. They beamed goodness and sincerity that usually got him the extra cookie from the motherly waitress, but played hell with his bluffing skills.

He felt warm blood drip down the curve of his face, and he tried not to worry. Scalp wounds always bled the worst, and he was pretty sure that he didn't have a concussion. He did a quick mental check when they had first thrown him into the metal cage where he now stood. He wasn't seeing double and he wasn't nauseous, all of which was a good sign.

He was more worried about the wounds to his sides and back. He knew when they grabbed him that they were bad news, but it wasn't until they roused him from unconsciousness with an ammonia cap waved under his nose that he knew he was in trouble.

He awoke in a large hollow room that echoed every tiny noise five times over, making the fight that ensued sound like a World War III battle cacophony. He wasn't sure where they were, but the cement floor they threw him down on was damp, cold and had the subtlest sensation of sliminess beneath his hands.

They didn't give him much time to ponder his surroundings, since they proceeded to literally kick the shit out of him as soon as he hit the ground. He had curled into a ball and protected his face and head the best that he could, but their pointed cowboy boots had done some serious damage to his torso. They chucked him into a steel cage, just tall enough for him to stand in. By the time he had managed to struggle to his knees to look around, one of the guys was long gone, leaving him alone with Mr. Jerky Shorts.

Sam was pretty sure he had at least one broken rib, and no matter how well trained he was, broke was broke and it hurt like a---

"Sonovabitch," Sam whispered quietly.

John Winchester in his tried and true, balls to the wall, Marine fashion had ingrained in his sons that harsh language was perfectly acceptable in bad, _I just might get shanked_, situations. Sam figured that this qualified as one of them. So while normally, the word 'sonovabitch' was spat out often by his dad, and once or twice by Dean, it was never, ever allowed into Sam's very extensive and varied vocabulary. As a positive, Sam was fairly certain that his dad wasn't around to hear him mutter the word that was certain to get him bitch slapped in the back of the head. As a negative, his dad wasn't around to bitch slap him.

Pain and fear mixed well together and the glare that he threw at his captor was full of venom. Sam watched as the man paced back and forth in front of him. He was dressed in boots and jeans, a flannel thrown over a tee. He looked like a normal, blue-collar guy, but Sam wasn't fooled. He moved like a man who knew how to place one foot in front of the other with a fair amount of skill. The man moved like a Hunter, and that made Sam as nervous as a cat in a dog pound. He dipped the point of his chin closer to his chest, hiding behind his shaggy hair.

8888

The move that was meant to conceal his doubt from his captor succeeded in making him look uncharacteristically wicked, as the shadows deepened around his babyish face half-coated with blood. Scenes from the Omen flashed in Frank's mind, and he was convinced that the kid that he had in the steel cage was ten times worse than that Damien boy. That conviction eased his tension a bit, but not by a whole fuck of a lot. Frank was used to being in bad situations. His entire life was one bad scene after another, starting with his dumpster birth behind the bar where his ma was hookin', but he was always confident that he could half-ass his way back out. This time he wasn't so sure.

Frank didn't even want to think about why the little boy thought his brother was more of a threat than his own father. What kind of boys had John Winchester raised? Killing machines, obviously. Sam was evil. Frank knew that to his core. Not just a little bit evil either, but the kind that drives kids like Dahmer to lobotomize their sex slaves or makes grown men fuck ten year-olds. No, Sam Winchester was the born in the fiery pits of Hell kind of evil. The brat had been baptized in demonic blood, and would soon rise up to take his place in Hell's army. He could very well destroy the world if they didn't stop him.

But what, Frank wondered, was the older boy's excuse? Sam was demon spawn, but Dean was nothing but one hundred percent, home-grown human. And according to Sam the half-pint was far more dangerous than their own battle-hardened, Marine-trained father. That put a shiver down Frank's spine.

He had met John Winchester once, years ago. He had been driven, intense and predatory. The man had taken to hunting after his wife died like a duck took to water. Already military trained, his familiarity with weapons and tracking had only enhanced his deadliness early on in the game and he put an impressive amount of kills under his belt in the first year alone. Now twelve years later he was the best in the business. The fact that he had taken that training and bestowed it onto his kids made this gig all that more dangerous.

The other kids they had taken had been easy prey. Most of them were neglected by alcoholic fathers that never recovered from the gruesome deaths of their wives and it was easy to snatch the kids from right under their noses. When he and Tom uncovered the clue that linked Sam Winchester to the Army of the Chosen, they both knew that they had stumbled onto something big. They had systematically been wiping out the Chosen for the last year, ever since a demon they were exorcising in Rhode Island had spilled the beans about Hell's plans, but hunting another Hunter's kid was no joke.

It wouldn't be so bad if they could off the brats at a distance, but sending the little bastards back to their demon daddy that spawned them took a fair bit of ritual. Frank glanced back at the kid who was huddled down at the bottom of the steel cage he and Tom had thrown him into after they beat him. Part of the ritual to killing a Chosen was spilling its blood, which they had done with relish. He checked the chalk lines to the Devil's Trap that was traced out on the cement floor of the warehouse, the cage squarely in the center, carefully making sure none of the lines were broken.

The protective circles were necessary to trap the demon after the boy's body burned. Once free of its mortal flesh the demon that dwelled inside would try to escape, but the Trap would keep it bound and the purifying fire would send it back to Hell where it belonged.

It was a horrible way to die he supposed, burning alive, but it wasn't like it was _human_ or anything.

888

Sam watched as the man paced around the perimeter of the room nervously. He could see chalk lines laid out into a ritualistic design, but he couldn't make it out very well, and he didn't know what the runes meant. He eyed the shallow brass cauldrons that lined up at the points of the symbol painted on the ground, and he couldn't help but to notice that all the lines led to him.

As scary as that was, that wasn't what was making him afraid. There was the overwhelming scent of kerosene in the air. It was so strong that it was nearly burning out his nose hairs and his eyes were watering. He was thankful when the man opened the steel set of double doors to let some fresh air into the room. The cloying scent of gas mixed with the antiseptic taste in the back of his mouth from the chloroform was giving him a bad case of cottonmouth.

He wished he knew what the men wanted from him, why they had snatched him up. The one who was left behind to watch him was obviously the weak link. He was twitchy, his brown eyes darting between him and the door, like he couldn't wait to get away. The guy was good and afraid so Sam thought that maybe it was time that he started working on those negotiation skills his dad was always talking about.

"You know if you let me go I won't tell anyone what you did."

The guy just glanced his way, but didn't answer.

"Cause, you know, stealing a kid is bad news. I hear they do things to guys like you in prison."

The man whirled around, his face twisted up into a snarl. "Shut the fuck up, you demon spawn!"

_Okaaay._ That wasn't the way to go.

A high pitched chirping sounded from the guy's pocket. He dug out his cell phone, flipping it open to read a text message. He nodded, muttering to himself in a way that made Sam very, very tense. The guy pocketed his phone and paced behind Sam, pausing at one of the brass bowls.

"Whatcha doing?" Sam's young voice cracked and all of his throbbing bruises dulled beneath the buzz of panic that was suddenly strumming his senses.

The man leered at him sardonically, all of his previous nervousness gone. He held Sam's eyes as he very deliberately lit a match, his maniacal grin widening. Sam wrapped his scrapped hands around the bars of his cage, feeling the thin sheen of sweat on his palms as they slipped against the cold metal.

"Stop! Oh, God. Stop!" Fear cramped Sam's gut and he knew he was going to spew right there all over his shoes. He had been a couple of hunts with his dad and Dean, and he had been afraid, but never like this. Always he knew that Dean was looking out for him, and that dad was right behind him, but he was all alone now. No one knew where he was, and there wasn't going to be a well timed rescue. There wasn't even a monster he could fight off to make his dad proud. It was just a man. Nothing more. Just a human man and a lit match.

Frank dropped the tiny flame into the cauldron filled with kerosene, stepping back when it flared up to his knees. He felt all of his fear dissipate with that single action. John Winchester had been neutralized. The threat was gone. And now he was going to take care of one more demon before it could hurt anyone else. It was a good day to be Frank Potter.

The cauldron flamed and he kicked it over so it ignited the kerosene laced chalk on the floor. He watched as the fire raced along the lines, jumping into the shallow pots before streaming up the next line. He heard the kid screaming, but he couldn't hear much over the roaring of the flames and the pounding blood in his ears.

He ran towards the open doors, turning back to glance at the demon one more time. The brat was trapped in the cage in the center of the inferno, his blonde hair cast red in the blaze.

"Burn in hell, kid."

Sam watched as the man ducked out the door, leaving him in the center of the flames. He rattled the bars to his cage, screaming as loudly as his oxygen deprived lungs would allow him. Smoke filled the room, and his eyes watered, streaking his face with tears. All he could think of while he screamed for someone to save him was that he was wrong. So very wrong.

He wasn't too old at all to be walked home from school by his brother.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Supernatural. Thanks to Starliteyes for looking this over for me.

Hell Is Where The Heart Is

Chapter Two

Dean Winchester was _Pissed _with a capital P. His sixteen year-old hormones, combined with limited emotional coping skills made him into a ticking time bomb with a very, very short fuse. Thankfully, the health and welfare of the populace around him were relatively safe the majority of the time. At least from physical violence. There was nothing between here and Hell that could keep a civil tongue in the boy's head and that left most people bleeding in the streets while glaring at his retreating back. However, there was one thing that was sure to light Dean's fuse every time, and that was an endangered Sammy.

One of the first things that bullies learned when they moved to a new town was that Sam Winchester was off limits. That meant no taunting, no threatening, and if Dean really had a hair up his ass, that meant no breathing within a fifty foot radius of his little brother. That included everyone, not just the bullies at school, but the ones loitering on street corners as well.

They had never lived in suburbia and if it wasn't for the occasional ghost-busting gig on the other side of the tracks, Dean would have never laid eyes on a house that actually had a white picket fence unless it was on T.V. The hoods that they moved into were dirty and mean, and Dean was sure to build his street cred with quick efficiency. Not so much for himself as for Sam. Dean took care of Sam, and that meant anticipating his needs before he even knew that he needed them. To that effect, Dean always made Sam's transitions into their new ghetto home as painless as possible.

While on a hunt, Dean made sure that Sam was safe. That was his job first and foremost. His second priority was watching his dad's back. Both of which he did with the skill and finesse that no normal sixteen year-old boy should be capable of. But Dean wasn't just any teenage boy, he was a Winchester, and his mad skills were legendary. Even if those legendary skills were only whispered about by his little brother, who thought Dean was a super hero. And that was enough for Dean. He didn't need to show off for anyone else. Well, his dad, but that wasn't showing off, that was all about proving his worth as a man.

So, yeah. On a hunt, if anything fucked with Sam, it got ventilated. Then it got salted and burned as a precaution. And if _really_ pissed off Dean, then maybe he lit up anything that might resemble a nest for good measure. He was dangerous, he was predatory, and he was disciplined. All that blowing off steam made him exceptionally calm for a hormonal, socially challenged teen, much to his numerous teacher's and counselor's amazement.

As a necessary survival tactic, the many economically deprived school systems Dean had entered into over the years were quick to identify him as a high-risk teen, and watched him like a hawk for even the smallest hint of mental combustion. But Dean wasn't a trouble-starter; he was, one biology teacher commented to a room of like-minded faculty, a trouble-ender. As in, if another kid started shit with either him or his little brother, they got ended with extreme prejudice.

Teenage boys by nature were a little arrogant and a whole lot cocky. Fights were bound to happen when you lumped them together for eight hours at a time with newly developing teenage girls who were just figuring out that they had _assets_, and how shaking them degenerated a room full of boys into slobbering Neanderthals. More than once it had been tempting for Dean to flex his bad-ass battle techniques for the ladies, and as a result he had been sent home a couple of times for brawling, but not once had he put another kid in the hospital. That was pretty damn impressive, considering his mad skills and all.

Of course, the fact that injuring another kid would piss off his dad to no end had a lot to do with it as well.

So when Sam didn't make it home from school, Dean's fuse got lit, but it was a slow burn. Their house was only four blocks away, a short enough distance that his twelve year-old brother didn't need an escort. After all, even though he was the baby of the family, he was a Winchester, and that was saying a whole hell of a lot.

When a search of the street in between their house and the school turned up nothing, Dean widened his perimeter to include all surrounding areas like heavily concealed back yards and the one nearby park. When he came up empty, he knew it was time to call his dad, because there was no way that Sam had just overlooked the time and was hanging out at the local library, though Dean did check just for the sake of thoroughness. No, Sam was gone, which meant something had taken him, and just like that Dean's fuse went from slow burn to nuclear.

Once Dean involved his father, things progressed fairly quickly. They re-searched the area, just to make sure nothing had been missed. John made a few calls, asked some questions, and half an hour later he received one call back. Dean didn't hear the words, but he saw his father's face as he listened to the caller.

Dean knew mad. There was something about becoming an adolescent that made most teenagers into experts on the subject. Now while he was damn sure to keep a respectful tongue in his head around his father, he had been known to tell a few asshole authority figures exactly what he thought of them and their mamas. It helped to alleviate his own inner turmoil when someone else's head, especially an adult's, turned into a tomato and exploded. Since he didn't get to play the, _piss off the parents,_ card that his peers got to, he took a great deal of pleasure in torturing most everyone else around him. After all John Winchester's version of smacking the sass out of your mouth meant an hours on end training session where if it didn't leave something broke, then it sure as hell felt like it.

So yeah, he knew what anger looked like. What he saw on his dad's face wasn't anger though. It was rage. White-hot, blinding, _not only am I going to kill you, but I'm going to take out everyone you love_, fury. Dean was at least twenty feet away, but he took another step back just in case. Never in his lifetime had he seen his dad so mad. Not even when Dean had fucked up on a hunt and almost gotten them all wasted.

Dad snapped his phone closed without a word and stalked by him into the house. Uncertain of what to do, Dean stood still, waiting for an order to be barked his way. John returned in record time, carrying the M40 weapon case with him. Every nerve in Dean's body went bow-string taut at the sight of it.

John had just recently started training him on the sniper rifle, and not unsurprisingly he was a natural at it. The first time he used in the field it had been on a werewolf. He missed his mark by several inches, severing the monster's carotid artery instead of striking its heart. The thing had bled like a bitch, but hadn't outright died.

His dad had marched him down the hill like a recalcitrant toddler and made Dean stand over the wolf as it thrashed around on the forest floor, blood and shit splattering him and soaking into the deadfall. Most people didn't know that the bowels were one of the first things to go in the middle of death throes. It was a mess to watch and the stink was nearly as bad as three day-old decomp. Dad made him watch as the thing morphed from a monster into a man, made him watch as the guy choked on his own blood, his eyes so wide and dilated with shock that Dean couldn't see any other color except for black with just the barest rim of white.

Then wordlessly, John took out his .45 and shot the man through the heart with a silver bullet, turning away and leaving Dean to salt and burn the body on his own. John hadn't needed to say anything, Dean had learned his lesson. Don't ever miss. A miss could not only cost him his life, Dad's or God-forbid Sammy's, but it could also mean torturing some pathetic, backwoods monster that maybe, just maybe didn't deserve it.

The second time he took out the M40, he saw the pink mist and his dad patted him silently on the back. He learned his lesson, and his father was proud of him for doing so.

John stowed the gun case in the trunk of the Impala and slid into the front seat. Dean joined him hurriedly, knowing his father would clue him in when he was ready. Even though they were family, they still worked as a military unit. John was the general, and Dean was on a need to know basis.

Dean wanted to rally all of his unused teenage angst and demand that his father tell him what was going on with all the petulance of a boy trying to find his way to manhood, but the rage was still stamped on John's face, and Dean was as willing to go up against his father as he was a den of wyverns.

They drove out towards the waterfront, leaving behind the commercial district and continued on to the warehouses that were settled along the bay like vultures on a corpse. It was deserted on a Sunday afternoon, but Dean was pretty sure that even if they were there on a Monday, the place would be empty. The lots around them looked unused and worn down, inhabitable only by the homeless and only if they were desperate.

John pulled the Impala to a stop, and Dean glanced at him from the corner of his eye. What he saw only made the cold, hard despair in the pit of his stomach harden into an obsidian ball. His dad's hands were wrapped around the wheel so tightly that his knuckles had been bleached white to the bone. His lips pressed into a colorless line that stood out starkly against the dark stubble on his face, but it was John's eyes that worried Dean the most. They had darkened into black, hard stone.

"Take the M40 to the roof. Our target is in the warehouse to the west." John's voice was brittle, and Dean could barely suppress the shiver that rattled down his spine. He handed Dean the keys so he could open the trunk.

"Dad, what's going on?"

"Just do as I say," John barked and Dean nearly leapt out of his skin.

Dean scrambled to do as he was told, almost out of the car before his father's deadly soft voice stopped him.

"I don't know how many of them there are, but don't shoot them, son."

"What?" Dean was incredulous. Why was he going up onto the roof it he wasn't going to be able to shoot the monsters that stole Sam? He hadn't quite decided what form of _thing_ had taken his little brother, but he was damn sure positive that it was evil, and it needed to be made dead real fucking quick.

His dad turned his hard, furious gaze onto him, and Dean felt his entire body flush hot then cold.

"Listen to me, Dean. Unless you see Sammy or me in direct, eminent danger you are not to shoot. Do you understand me?"

Dean quivered a little and he felt the rage trickle back. He wanted to do the unthinkable and argue with his father, but he couldn't. So he did all he could do, he nodded and slammed the door. He stalked to the back of the Impala, retrieving the case before circling around to the driver side.

Wordlessly, he handed the keys back to his father through the open window without looking at him.

As he turned to walk away, he heard his father issue the command again. "Do as I say, Dean."

Dean hunched his shoulders and kept walking.

He scaled the fire escape effortlessly, landing on the roof of the building without a sound. He padded over to the west wall, hunching down so he couldn't be seen. Methodically he unpacked the M40, his sure hands assembling the weapon with skill. Getting the rifle locked and loaded was something he could do blindfolded in twenty-seven seconds. He knew because his dad timed him.

He slid the slender bullet into the breach, and nosed the barrel over the lip of the wall. He found the warehouse where Sammy was being kept, and he adjusted the sight as he looked for any windows that would give him a clear line of contact. From the east side the building was completely sealed, a sheet metal box with only one entrance.

Dean cussed under his breath focusing on the double doors where a late model, white van was parked. He saw movement, and he released a breath when the outer doors started to open. Finally he was catching a break. John's order had been clear, but he knew that he would disregard it if he even so much as had an inkling that Sam was in danger. He tightened his finger around the trigger, and waited for the monster to appear.

The doors swung open, and Dean's finger quivered then loosened. It was a man. Just a man.

John Winchester's Golden Rule bulleted through his brain as the man backed away from the door and sunk back into the shadows.

_Thou shall not kill…humans._

Dean eased his finger off the trigger and waited. Never had he dreamed that they would be hunting humans. What was Sammy thinking anyways, allowing himself to be taken by some dude? Sam should have put the guy down easy, but instead he was being held captive by some freak.

His body tensed as he realized what a normal human man would want with a little boy. He slipped his finger back on the trigger, his jaw tight with barely contained anger. It was then that Dean decided that there were all kinds of monsters in the world. Some of them had claws, some had freaky-ass tentacles, and some of them were just men. In his black-and-white teenaged mind where right was right, and wrong was wrong, they all deserved the same patented Winchester treatment.

_Salt and burn, baby_, Dean thought and sighted his scope steadily on the open door and waited for his chance.

A half an hour passed, and there was no movement from inside the warehouse. Dean didn't know where his father had gotten off to, but he knew that he had to be around somewhere. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and retook aim, his breathing shuddering to a stop when he saw the warehouse light up like the Fourth of July from the inside. Orange and red light poured out the aged cracks and the bullet holes made by gang bangers looking for a makeshift firing range. From where he was sitting it looked like flames, but that couldn't be right. Who in their right mind would set fire to a building while they were in it?

Just then the man came barreling out of the building at full tilt. Dean tracked him, his finger on the trigger, but his dad's warning, coupled with the echoes of the Golden Rule kept him from squeezing. The man ducked inside the van, and Dean growled at his lost chance.

He was panning back to the warehouse to look for more details when an eardrum shattering explosion nearly knocked him on his ass.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural. Thanks to Starliteyes for editing.

A/N: I completed this story over the summer and just now posting it as my beta can attest. Any similarities to the hunters in this story and the ones in 3X03 is purely coincidental.

Hell Is Where The Heart Is

Chapter Three

John was pretty sure that Dean was getting ready to bust a cap in someone's ass or ventilate them or whatever lingo the kids were using these days. John didn't really blame him. He was pretty close to toeing the line to murder himself. He just needed to figure out what needed killing so he could pack either silver bullets or consecrated rounds.

There was only one thing that John took more seriously than hunting, and that was his boys. Family came first. That was the reason they were who they were. Someone, _something_ had fucked with their family and someday it was going to pay. In a fucked up world where kids were getting shot down in the streets and there really were monsters under the bed, the only thing that they had were each other. John was going to make certain it stayed that way even if it killed him.

Dean was getting to that age where he was able to take care of himself. He was still a boy that needed his father's approval and direction, but when it came to a fight, John was pretty damn sure that his boy would come out on top. Especially, if Sammy was in danger. John had raised a fine fighter in Dean. A hell of a guardian too.

The boy knew how to take orders and how to execute an attack plan like a battle-hardened vet. Others might see Dean as a smart-mouthed punk, but John knew the truth. He knew how to get a job done, which is why he found it so fucking hard to believe that he lost his little brother.

He supposed that assessment wasn't really fair. Sammy was a Winchester, but damn if he wasn't fighting the rein like a yearling colt. The boy had more piss and vinegar in him than a gaggle of first year cadets out of some butt-fuck Army academy, and that _was not_ a compliment. The boy had no snap to when it came to orders being issued, but John had to give the boy his due. Sammy was smart. Smart in a way that made Mensa members look like drooling idiots. Those smarts combined with his combat skills wrapped up in that cute boy package made him into a damn substantial opponent. Enough so, that John thought that it would be okay for his twelve year-old to walk himself four blocks from school to home.

Apparently, he was wrong.

If Sam was there, he would be quick to point out that it wasn't the first time either. The kid was twelve rounding on twenty- _I know everything there is to know and you're an idiot for not following along-_two Puberty was going to be the death of John before anything supernatural got a hold of him that was for damn sure.

If it wasn't Sam arguing his way about every little thing, then it was Dean and his numerous girlfriends. If John hadn't sat his son down at the tender age of thirteen and made it clear (ordered) that Dean was to always wear a condom, he would be a grandfather at least five times over. That may be an exaggeration, but he wasn't willing to bet on it. How the boy managed to juggle so many women at one time was a complete mystery to him. Mary had been all the challenge that he needed. She had kept him on his toes twenty-four seven, and even now, years later, he could still hear her patient tone in his head when he was talking to his kids.

Right now her steady shriek was reverberating in the back of his skull. It was the kind of wail that he had heard too many times over the years when a mother had lost a child. It was something that he had never heard in his own head before, but he knew, deep in his heart, that whatever was going on, was something he hadn't faced before. All of his instincts were on skin-tingling, high alert, and nothing was going to ease him until he had his youngest back at his side again.

In all his years of hunting John only knew of one kind of monster that snatched kids off the street in broad daylight. It wasn't supernatural, but there was just no way that a mere _human_ would have gotten the drop on Sammy, ever. So of course, it had to be something supernatural, just something he hadn't run across before.

He had burned all his Roadhouse connections five years ago, after a hunt went bad and Bill Harvelle ended up on the wrong side of dead. So he started making a round of calls to everyone else he knew, even Bobby. He figured that the old codger couldn't make good on his promise to fill him with buckshot over the phone, and even if he was still pissed, John was pretty sure that when it came to Sammy he would help out where he could.

No one knew what it could be, but John wasn't surprised when his phone rang thirty minutes after his round of calls. There wasn't much that a Hunter didn't know, and if it stumped him then he wasn't above doing a little networking. He was sure that someone had dug something up and was getting back to him. So it was with a great deal of relief that he answered the phone, hoping for an answer finally. He _was_ surprised when it was Ellen Harvelle's voice on the other end of the line.

"_Hello, John."_

"Ellen." John kept this voice as neutral as possible. The last time he had spoken to Ellen it was to tell her that his fuck- up had made her a widow. That conversation was one he was in no rush to relive, _ever_. That was the first and last time he took a partner on the hunt. The risk was too great, and the cost was too high. It wasn't the first time someone called him a worthless piece of shit, but it was the first time that he whole-heartedly agreed with them.

"_Caleb told me about what's going on. I'm real sorry to hear about Sam."_

John nodded before he realized that an actual verbal response would be needed. "Yah." Her soft voice weighed down on his stomach like a cannonball. The only reason she would be calling him was because she knew something. And if she had called a ceasefire to offer him a sliver of moral support, then whatever she knew was bound to be bad. Real fucking bad.

"What do you know, Ellen?"

There was a pause, and he felt his guts tighten up as eels slithered around in his belly.

"_Just a rumor."_

"What kind of rumor?" He felt his fingers tighten on the phone and he had to force himself to loosen his grip before he shattered it.

"_Just that some Hunters found out there were some half-demon children that are supposed to bring about the end of the world. Now I don't believe in all that crap mind you, but I keep to my own business. They aren't regulars here, and I don't have a mind for them to be."_

"What's that got to do with Sam?" John growled.

"_Well it seems that someone overheard them saying that little Sammy is part of the demonic lot."_

"What?" That was the most ridiculous thing that John had ever heard, and after the last twelve years, that was saying quite a lot. His disbelief was quickly shoved to the side as anger began to roll over him, thick and deep, covering him from head to toe.

"Who are these people?"

"_Well, I've only heard tell of two. Frank Potter and Tom Adams. There might be more, but I'm not certain."_

John recognized their names right off. He had only met them once, but John made it his business to memorize the names and faces of anyone associated with hunting. Frank was an idiot, not just in a dumbass way either. His mama hadn't taken the best care of herself while he was swimming in her stomach and he had come out a whole lot wrong.

Frank wasn't much of a threat, but Tom more than made up for it. The man was a fanatic. He believed that demons were a plague upon the world sent by Lucifer, and that he was God's messenger. The personification of Michael, himself, created to smite the evil that was swarming over the earth like the rising tide. The man was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs that was for damn sure.

"Where are they?"

"_4690 Waterfront Drive. It's an empty warehouse."_

How did she know that? How did she know any of this? "Are you a part of this Ellen? Cause I swear to God---"

"_John." _She cut in with a hiss that silenced his tirade_. "My anger is squarely aimed at you. I would never do anything to your boys and you know it. I have connections, and I used them. I used them, John, because family is everything, and I don't cotton to grown men killing babies, no matter how justified they think they are."_

John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus his panic. It would do him no good to get into a fight with Ellen now, not when his son needed him. He grunted what may have been an apology and snapped the phone closed. He stalked by Dean, who was looking at him like he spouted another head that was spewing pea soup. He stomped into the house, a half-formed plan becoming crystal clear.

For the first time since the Marines, he was going to have to hunt something that wasn't supernatural. He was no stranger to killing a man. He had been the top marksman in his company, and more than once his team had been dispatched to places where the Geneva Convention hadn't even been heard of. He had cut his teeth on do-or-die situations, but since returning Stateside he had done his best to hunt only the non-human monsters of the dark.

It was important to him that he set a precedent for his children. He raised them to be Hunters, not murderers. He didn't want them to have a vigilante mentality that would get them into trouble with the law. Besides, killing a human took a toll on the soul in a way that killing a monster could never do.

John knew that Sam could never hurt another human being. His son would have fought his attackers, but when faced with a kill-or-be-killed situation, Sam would choose to safeguard the sanctity of human life over his own safety. His little boy was good and pure like that. He struggled every day with the right and wrong of their lifestyle.

Sam felt remorse even for those who didn't deserve it, looking for the good in everything. Sam saw the lost soul inside a vengeful spirit and the humanity inside the wolf. He was always fighting to save people, even if it was from themselves.

Dean wasn't like that, John knew. His oldest son would never kill just for the sake of it, but he would annihilate anything, human or supernatural, that threatened his family. Deep inside, where he hid is heart, Dean would feel the pain of killing, but he would shove it down and move forward. At night when the shadows were the darkest, the guilt would eat at him, but he would survive it, because that was what Dean did. Dean did what others couldn't, sparing them the agony of it, and taking it upon himself to do the dirty work.

John retrieved the M40 weapon's case, doubt fluttering through him. He never wanted his sons to feel the bone-shaking remorse that one felt after killing another human being, but today it may be inevitable. He wanted to avoid it if at all possible, but he needed to be prepared for the possibility. John didn't know how many hunters he would be going up against today. He needed an element of surprise over them. He needed to know that Dean was watching his back.

He walked outside, stowing the gun in the trunk before getting into the Impala. Dean slid in beside him, tightly contained, but thrumming with unused energy. Silently they drove to the warehouse district, and John parked the car where it couldn't be seen.

He knew that Dean didn't agree with the order that he issued not to shoot, but he had to trust his son to obey him. It wasn't the most ideal situation, but they had to make due. As soon as Dean disappeared up onto the roof, John climbed out of the Impala, and drew his .45. He circled around the perimeter, working his way around so he could approach the warehouse from the western front.

As far as he could tell, the warehouse was split in two halves. On the eastern wall that Dean was facing, there was a set of double doors with a white van parked outside. Instinct told John that he would find Sam waiting for him inside. He didn't want to approach from the front, so he moved around back, noticing a second building attached to the larger warehouse. It looked like an office, a place for supervisors to do their paperwork.

John approached it stealthily, cursing under his breath when he realized that there was only one entrance. If this was his show, he would have most certainly booby-trapped the door as an early warning system that his perimeter was being breached. The problem with hunting other Hunters is that he had no idea what their training was. They could be paramilitary, backwoods rebels, or simple men who got into hunting late in life. Whatever the case may be, it made this situation all the more dangerous.

He checked the door, looking for any outward signs of a trap. Seeing nothing, he tested the door knob, flinching when he found it unlocked. An open invitation was usually a bad sign. He knelt down and nudged it open a quarter of an inch. At the base of the door, he could see a silver thread pulled taut, waiting for him to make a mistake and blow himself to kingdom come.

He withdrew his Swiss army knife and cut the fishing line with his scissors. Slowly he cracked the door open, glancing around the shadowed interior, looking for anything that was out of place. There were stacks of waterlogged boxes and overturned office furniture that made for excellent hiding places. John pressed his lips tightly together, the back of his neck tingling with warning. There was no chance that he could turn back now, not when Sam needed him.

He moved into the room, his body low to the ground, his weapon raised defensively.

"That's far enough, Winchester."

A red beam appeared out of nowhere, pegging John in the center of the chest. He followed the line of sight back to its origins, but could see nothing but a dark mass of piled debris. John stood in defeat, knowing that there was no reason for stealth now.

"Toss the gun."

John did as he was told, throwing the gun to the side.

"What else you got?"

"Why don't you come and find out?" John didn't leer like Dean would have. His face was a mask of seriousness. He was playing his cards close to the vest. If the man drawing down on him was dumb enough to come close enough to search him, then that would be his mistake. However, if he didn't search him, then he would never know what kind of weapons John was really carrying.

John could hear the metallic slide of the bolt being drawn back on a rifle, and he almost smiled.

"Throw out all your weapons or I kill your son."

If someone was watching John closely they may have seen him tense, but it wasn't likely. With casual disregard for the man who was issuing orders from the shadows John began to toss his weapons to the side. The benefit of being heavily armed is that when you do disarm, the sheer numbers of weapons that are dropped convince the assailant that you have discarded everything. After tossing aside three handguns, one shotgun, and a bevy of bladed weapons, one would think that there weren't any more hiding places for a weapon to be found. They would be wrong.

"Where's my son, _Tom."_

John's voice was thick with disdain, and he could imagine the consternation on the face of the man who was hiding. John had just upped the stakes by admitting that he knew the Hunter's name. He wondered if Tom would check or call.

"He's around, but you bring up a good point. Where's that other boy of yours?"

Call it is.

"He's around." John checked and waited for Tom to raise the stakes. He wasn't disappointed.

"Look, Winchester. I know you are pretty fucking pissed off right now and you have every right to be, but once you hear what I have to say I think you'll understand."

"Understand you stealing my boy? That's gonna take some doing, Tom."

"Now, John." Tom tried to match John's tone, but he sounded more cajoling than anything. "I know you're concerned. You're a good man. I wish that my daddy had been half as fine as you. You care for those boys, and that's admirable. You can't be faulted for not having all the facts."

John wanted to shift his weight to bring his right leg forward, but he restrained himself. He had a .38 in an ankle holster, and he wanted nothing more than to drop and pull the gun so he could shoot the fucker in front of him through the head. Even in the dark, John knew he could make the shot. He didn't have to see the guy to know where he was. His laser sight and voice told John all he needed to know. What he needed was a distraction so he could get the drop on him.

"And what facts would those be?"

"I know about your wife. How she died."

It was a good thing that John had a lifetime and a half to practice restraint. If he had been a less disciplined man he might have attacked the guy right then and there. The anger that suffused every cell in his body burned like acid, and he could feel his fingers tremble with it. He inhaled deeply though his nose, calming his senses, and making damn sure that his voice was under control before he spoke.

"I would tread lightly if I were you." The words echoed in the room, similar to a wolf growling from the cover of its den.

"I know I'm stirring bad memories, but keep in mind that I have the gun. Don't be foolish now."

"You're talking about things that you have no business talking about." Unable to control himself, John shifted his leg forward, preparing himself to attack.

"Now, normally I would agree with you, John. A man's family is his business, but you see, it's the way Mary died that makes it all our business."

John's restless mind stilled at that and all thoughts of attack skidded to a halt. He went on point like a dog with the scent of its prey in its snout. Tom was talking about the demon now. The father in him receded to the background and the cold, skilled Hunter came to the forefront.

"What do you know about that?" John asked carefully.

"I know she wasn't the only one. There were others. All of them sacrificed above their child's crib."

John couldn't speak if he wanted too. One of the first things he had found out after learning to track the supernatural was that Mary's death wasn't the only one. There were others, he knew that already. He should have realized that someone else would put it together, but he hadn't thought it mattered. There was a demon out there preying on women and their little babies. What did that have to do with his son?

"You see, Frank and I's specialty is exorcisms. We do a couple of them a year and the shit that comes out those filthy demon's mouths would make your blood run cold. The things they know."

"Demon's lie." John had been dangerous moments before when he entered the room, but now he was edging up to downright predatory.

"Ain't that the God's honest truth, but sometimes, John, when they know it will fuck with you the most, they'll tell the truth." Tom didn't seem to grasp the change of atmosphere in the room. The more he spoke, the more relaxed he became, as if he was speaking to a colleague and not an enemy. It was then that John realized that there was a reason that Tom hadn't shot him yet. A very disturbing reason.

"So Frank and I were exorcising this demon up in Rhode Island when it began jabbering on about hell on earth and the coming of a war. It went on to say that a demon, an archfiend from the deepest pits, was raising an army. Children baptized in their mother's blood, fed by the demon's essence, were chosen to be warriors on the side of evil."

John felt his skin crawl. _Fed by the demon's essence?_ What the hell did that mean? He couldn't see Tom's face, but he could imagine the fanaticism that was bound to be gleaming from his eyes. John could hear it in the man's voice, the paranoia and vehement conviction that sent men to war for centuries.

"That has to be the dumbest thing I've ever heard." John needed to get to the root of Tom's ramblings before he went off the deep end. It had been his experience that the best way to get a fanatic to talk was to challenge his beliefs.

"Your boy isn't really yours. He's the spawn of the devil. Him and all the children like him. They have to be eliminated for the good of mankind."

Something sank deep in John's belly. It writhed around inside him until he thought he was going to be sick. His fingers curled into fists at their own accord, and suddenly the air became heavy and stagnant, making it hard for him to breathe.

"And these children, the ones where their mother's have died in nursery fires, you've hunted them?"

"At least half a dozen in the last year, but there are more of them. We've figured out a pattern. Every twenty-two years a new generation is born. You're a great hunter, John. We could use your help tracking this."

There it was. The god-awful truth of it all. The man across from him was a baby killer, and he wanted John to join him in his crusade. It was all that John could do not to fling himself over the distance that separated them and beat the man to death with his bare hands. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of Sam. His son needed him.

"How many other Hunters are tracking this?" John asked carefully, trying to inflect interest into his voice and damn near falling flat.

"Just Frank and me right now, but not for long. Frank runs his mouth a little too much. Obviously or you wouldn't have been able to find us. I've already got a plan to take care of him. But you and I, John, we would make a great team. Come with me. Help me to hunt this thing down."

"And my son?"

"I'm sorry, I really am, but that thing isn't your son. It's a demon."

John was still for a long while, absorbing the man's words, forming a response in his mind. He needed to get out from under the barrel of the rifle that was being pointed at him and next to his son. And there was only one way to do that.

"I'm gonna need to see some proof, Tom. I need to see my---I need to see Sammy."

John thought he sounded pretty convincing. He didn't think the revulsion that he felt in his gut showed in his tone, but maybe he was wrong. Tom didn't say anything from the shadows, and John's keen hearing picked up what sounded like the soft chimes of a cell phone key pad being dialed.

"I'm real sorry to hear that, John. I thought we would be able to work something out. I really did, but I should have known that it would be hard to convince you. You've raised that demon like your own. It's only natural that he would have tainted you."

"Now wait a second, Tom. I said I was willing to hear you out. All I'm looking for is a little proof."

"All you're looking for is a way to get near that thing so you can spring him."

"Tom---"

"Goodbye, Winchester."

An explosion ripped through the air, and John threw himself to the floor. The sudden burst of sound and rumbling ground would have sent any other man into a moment of panic, but John had been under fire in a warzone before. Explosions were nothing new to him, and he was reaching for his gun before he even hit the dirt.

In one smooth motion he pulled his .38, and in the shadows he could see the darker form of Tom, who was standing to get a better shot at him. Before the other man could pull the trigger, John drew down on him and fired three shots center mass. He was on his feet and standing over Tom in seconds, delivering another neat round to the man's head, putting him down permanently.

Without another moment to waste, John about-faced, and raced out of the room towards the sound of the explosion and his son.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural. Thanks again to Starliteyes.

Hell Is Where The Heart Is

Chapter Four

Dean hit the ground running. Somewhere between his perch and the warehouse he lost the M40, but he didn't care. He bolted past the van, now a flaming ball of fire after the man had turned over the engine, and straight into the inferno that was brimming out of the warehouse.

He skidded to a stop just inside the double doors, choking on the black smoke that was billowing out of the building. He wrapped his arm around his lower face, burying his nose into the crook of his elbow and tried to breathe shallowly through his mouth. His eyes began to stream black tears as the smoke irritated his eyes, blurring his vision.

In the center of the room he could see a barred cage with a shadowy form slumped on the floor.

_Sammy!_

Between him and the cage was a wall of flame nearly as tall as him. He backed up a step, intimidated by the sheer amount of heat wafting off the crackling inferno. Sweat from heat and fear, beaded on his brow and rolled down the curve of his face to drip off the point of his chin. He could feel his shirt plaster itself to his damp torso, and his hair lay wet against his scalp.

He took another step back, breathing in as much clean air as he could from the open door, storing it into his lungs. Before he could think better of it, he raced forward, leaping over the wall of fire that separated him from his little brother.

He felt the flames lick his legs, and his crotch felt dangerously warm, but he landed on the other side unscathed. He raced up to the cage, wrapping his hands around the metal bars to peer down at Sammy _and screamed_. The hot metal bars seared the flesh on his palms, gluing his hands to them like raw meat on a skillet. Gritting through the agony, he carefully pried his hands off, leaving behind small bits of skin stuck to the bars. Tears of pain mixed with the stream of irritated ones from the smoke. He ignored them; he ignored everything except for the huddled body of his brother on the floor of the cage.

"Sammy! Sam, wake up, lil' bro."

The flames hadn't reached him yet, but the smoke was thick in the center of the room. Sam had already passed out from oxygen deprivation, and Dean wouldn't be too far behind him if he didn't get his ass in gear. He squinted through the smoke and tears, finding the large padlock that kept the cage locked.

He tore off his over shirt, wrapping it around his hands and tried to yank the lock loose, but it was sealed tight. His throat burned and his lungs ached. The thick smoke in the room pushed him down until he slid to his knees, and he found the air a bit cleaner closer to the ground. He reached into his pocket, closing his raw hand around the lock pick set that he always kept with him.

His hands were trembling as he withdrew the picks, his fingertips sending blinding shocks of pain all the way up his arms until it burst behind his eyeballs. He gripped them tighter, grimly setting his jaw as he inserted the picks into the lock. He fumbled for a few precious seconds before he forced himself to stop. He was in a panic, his nervous system strummed tight from all the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He would never be able to save Sam if he couldn't calm down. He closed his eyes, blocking out the roar of the fire behind him, and the raw burning in his lungs.

He cocked his head to the side, concentrating on feeling the lock instead of seeing it. His burnt fingertips screamed with agony, but he pushed it aside, centering all of his attention to the sensation of the tumblers falling into place one by one.

Finally the lock came undone and it rattled to the floor along with his picks. He yanked open the door, crawling to his brother's side. He could barely see now, the smoke was so thick. Dean couldn't remember what it felt like to take a breath without feeling a searing burn thread its way through his lungs. He didn't know if he could force himself up off the floor and fight his way out of the inferno that they were trapped in.

He rolled Sam towards him, and his little brother's head lolled listlessly to the side. Dean's gut clenched as he looked down at Sammy's soot-stained, bruise-laden face. He remembered the day two months ago when Sam threw the mother of all fits, claiming that he was too old to be walked to and from school like a five year old.

Dean had been relieved when Sam had made the argument to their father. Sammy walking home meant Dean had a few more minutes to blow in the high school parking lot to make out with some girl or hang with the guys. That's what Sammy's life had come down to—a few minutes of freedom for Dean. It wasn't worth it. None of it was. Dean was willing to give up everything for his brother, even his own life. He didn't need a few minutes of freedom from responsibility, he needed his baby brother to open his eyes and grin at him with that huge, dimpled Sammy smile of his.

Dean dug down, finding strength he never knew that he possessed. He hauled Sam's dead weight over his shoulder, bracing himself on one knee. He paused for a moment, forcing himself to withstand the heat, the smoke, and his brother's weight on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, took a deep, smoke laced breath and stood unsteadily on his own two feet.

He turned towards the double doors, barely able to see them through the flames. The fire was closer than before, taller and more intense. This is what Hell would be like, he thought. It would be fire and brimstone, heat and sweat, blood and tears.

He dipped his chin towards his chest, the fire of hell dancing in the reflection of his dark eyes. His mouth was set into a pained line, and he tightened his grip on Sam's ankle and wrist. Their time had run out, and there was only one option. If Dean failed, they would both burn. His only comfort in that thought was that Sam would never wake up to feel the flames devouring his flesh.

He dug in his toes, bent his knees and then darted forward before the heat could drive him back. He leapt through the wall of fire. He felt it wrap around his body, caress him with hot, fiery licks. It charred his skin, singed his hair and clung to his clothing.

Dean screamed as his skin cracked and the breath he took seared his lungs. Sheer force of will drove him forward. He breached the wall of fire, and he could see the square of sunlight through the doors ahead of him. Black smoke was the only thing between him and clean air, but his lungs were burning and his muscles were screaming. He struggled forward, but his legs lost all their strength, and he was fumbling to the ground. He dropped Sam, and he tried to get a good grip on his belt and drag him forward on his hands and knees, but Dean couldn't breathe and his limbs lost all feeling.

His head was sinking towards the floor, when a dark figure blocked out the sunlight. He reached out a hand, reaching for a savior.

_Daddy_, a four year-old thought with all the reverence that he possessed.

8888

John Winchester dragged his sons from the inferno, laying them out on the cracked asphalt far away from the blaze. He saw the remains of a vehicle still burning and he wondered if Tom's partner would be found inside. He didn't much care, knowing that a body would be burned beyond recognition and nothing would lead back to him.

He placed an anonymous 911 call, telling the operator that two children needed emergency attention. As he was flipping his phone closed, Dean's bloodshot eyes cracked open.

"Dad." Dean's voice was rough with smoke, and John felt his heart lurch. Dean was breathing shallowly, and Sam was even worse off. He pressed his ear against his younger son's chest, hearing his rattling inhalations that made him nervous. Lung damage.

"Dad. Sam." Dean coughed, his body wracking under the strain. John reached out a big hand, settling it on his son's shoulder to keep him still.

"He's alive." At his words the tension in Dean's body leached away, and he lay back on the pavement. One hand was wrapped around his little brother's bicep, as if just touching him was enough to keep him breathing. John could see the burns blistered around Dean's fingers, and he looked over his shoulder into the blaze that raged behind him.

His son had dived head first into hell to save his little brother. It was that determination, that love that made him into the dependable soldier that he was. John was no fool. He used that devotion to keep his children safe, and he would continue to do so, now more than ever.

Dean had to become Sam's guardian. Not only over his life, but over his soul. If what Tom had said was true, than their family was destined for evil so terrible that it could destroy the world.

John looked down at his youngest son. Love was like a knife wound to the heart. No matter how much you packed it or bandaged it, it still bled over, sucking every last bit of strength from you. It was its own form of Hell, a twisted punishment for caring for something so much that it blinded you to everything else in the world. His love for his sons was, God-forbid, greater than his love for his wife, Mary. She was dead now, and for the past twelve years he hunted for vengeance. That vengeance wouldn't be slaked until the yellow-eyed demon was dead, but now he had another cause to add to his list. Something that was more important than vengeance. No matter what, he had to protect Sam from the evil that was stalking him.

For now Sam's secret was safe. John would do some covert investigations and find out anyone who might know about Tom and Frank's mission. He would find them, and eliminate them. It was what he did in the Marines and it was what he would do now. There was no fucking way he was going to let some bastard demon take his youngest child from him, and you could damn well believe he wasn't going to let some human hunter do it either.

He could hear the wail of sirens in the distance, and he went on full alert. He roused Dean from half-consciousness, forcing his oldest son to look him in the eye.

"Dean."

When Dean didn't acknowledge him, John slapped him across the face. Dean's eyes shot open, and the cloudiness cleared from them.

"The cops are on the way."

Dean's eyes widened with understanding and he tried to crawl to his hands and knees. The five-o was always to be avoided at all costs. John had drilled that into them from the time Sam could walk. He pushed his son back down, gaining his attention.

"You and Sam need medical attention, but I can't be found here at the scene. Do you understand, son?"

Dean's green eyes dilated with fear until they looked almost black. He began to flail against his father, burnt fingers trying for purchase on his overcoat.

"It's okay, Dean. I'll come for you tonight." Dean calmed a little, but John could still see the fear. "I promise." He whispered to his son, and finally his tension bled out.

"You have to allow them to treat you and Sam, but don't tell them who you are. Pretend to be disoriented, don't give them any information. And for fucksakes, don't let them fingerprint you."

He didn't think it would be a problem with the severity of the burns on his son's hands, but he wanted to make sure that Dean kept his wits about him. He didn't worry about Sam, knowing he was too young for him to be printed without a parents' permission.

He had to high-tail it out of there before the cops showed up and started asking questions. More importantly, he had to get rid of Tom's body. His corpse was riddled with bullets from John's gun, and any questions when his body was identified might lead the cops back to him. That was a risk he couldn't take.

He brushed his hand through Dean's hair reassuringly, giving him a small smile as a reward for the good job that he had done. Dean's lips curled upwards and his eyes drifted closed, motionless as his father walked away from him.

John found the M40 a few feet away and swept it up, securing it over his shoulder with the strap. He raced back to Tom's body, and hefted it over his other shoulder. He carried it back to the Impala, opening the trunk and dumping it inside.

He would take Tom out to the Cascade wilderness and salt and burn the bastard. There would be no trace of him left by the time John was done with him. He figured that Sam would need a couple of days in the hospital to recover. He would sneak in tonight like he promised and check on them, but as soon as they were ready to move they would bust out and shag ass out of the state. By that time John should have some idea who else was knew about Tom's piss ass theory.

There was nothing he could do about Ellen. He wasn't about to eliminate her. She hadn't done anything wrong, and John owed her too much. He would just have to trust her to keep her mouth shut. Once other hunters associated with Tom and Frank started to disappear, she would no doubt put it together. He may have been the bastard that got her husband killed, but Ellen was a good woman who valued family above all else. She would understand John's motivations and keep to her own counsel. It was just too bad that he could never make it up to her.

The fire trucks and police cruisers were entering the warehouse district from one end as John was driving out the other. He looked back in his rearview mirror, watching as the flames reached for the sky. The fear that he felt as Tom had spoken the words of his son's damnation settled into his chest. It became hard shield of resolve, sealing his bleeding heart until all that remained was the determination to protect his family.

A war was coming, and he had to prepare. He had to train his sons to protect themselves from every threat, not just the supernatural ones. He had to discover a way to kill the demon that was hunting them. He had to find a way to save his littlest boy's life and his soul, because if he couldn't do that then he had to do the unthinkable.

To save his child, he may ultimately have to kill him, and that was something that John Winchester just wasn't willing to do, not if he could help it.

Fin


End file.
